


When the Levee Breaks

by wincestplaythings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Insecure!Dean, M/M, Masterbation, Mention of switching, Rutting, Top!Sam, agnst, bottom!Dean, mention of anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:29:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestplaythings/pseuds/wincestplaythings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean feels guilty for wanting Sam and he's not at peace with the rights/wrongs of their relationship. Sam fixes it. (also, the one in which Dean wants to try something but is too scared to admit it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam paced, pacing back and forth across their motel room like it would help make this make sense, make Dean open up, explain, something.

His brother had a fixation. And for reasons unknown, he decided the best way to cope with it is blame Sam for it. 

Sam had caught Dean saying… things. Crying out for Sam, please please, and fuck me, more, while he slept. Whispering filthy things as he fucked his own fist, like he was fucking an imaginary Sam within an inch of his life, while hiding in noise of the shower. Whimpering and touching himself to anal porn when Dean thought he was alone and Sam had walked in on his vocal jerkoff session (which struck Sam as odd, seeing as these days, Dean invited Sam to touch him at the mere mention of sex, and rarely went at it alone). 

But they had never fucked. The boys were quick to offer a hand or their mouth, even rutting, anything non-penetrative to get off. But they hadn’t gone that far, because it never started out that way. Because Dean was afraid. Because Sam didn’t know what part of him Dean even wanted. 

Dean always got off on getting caught – by Sammy anyway – but he was definitely stealthy enough not, if he wanted to be secretive. It was like he desperately wanted to get caught, but then flushed with shame turned to anger when he inevitably did. Like a part of him wanted Sam to know, to take and give, and another part of him was terrified and humiliated when he was discovered. 

So Sam, being Sam, simply asked. 

“Dean, you saying you want to try something new?”

“The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”

“Lately you’ve seemed really interested in-”

“Oh fuck off.”

“I’m just asking.”

“No, you’re obsessed with fucking my ass, and it’s not fucking happening.”

“I’m- what?! You’re the one who’s been jacking to the thought for fucking weeks. Then you deny it and brood for hours like a teenager. I’m just trying to figure out what has you so worked up that you running off and hiding and getting pent up.”

Dean forced himself to look up from where his red face was buried in his hands. Once he could force himself actually look at his little brother, he just smirked, making a point of crossing the room and straddling Sam. The chair beneath them groaned, neither cared. 

“Aw, Sammy, am I neglecting you? If you wanted me to suck your cock, all you have to do is ask. No need to be a bitch.”

So Dean deflected, even tried swallowing his anger and distracting Sam, which is effective… until it isn’t. And Sam let it go, because being indignant only lasted for a minute before he had perfect cocksucker lips on his cock, swallowing him down so perfectly that even ten years of wet dreams couldn’t do it justice. 

But then it happened again. And Dean stormed off, didn’t come back for hours, and only returned with donuts, coffee, and shoplifter’s pockets stuffed with Sam’s favorite gum, aspirin for the impala’s glove box (a six week old request Sam was sure wasn’t heard), and a DVD rental. And when he returned, having cooled down, when Sam tried to finish the discussion, he kept changing the subject. 

Finally, as if he were exasperated, he forced his way into Sam’s lap, sucking on Sammy’s bottom lip and stroking his monster cock with a clever, just-right hand until Sam promised to shut up, come in his hand like a good boy, and enjoy the fucking movie in peace. 

-

At that point, Sam was determined to leave it alone. But as soon as they fell asleep, and Sam woke up on the couch, in the light of the muted television, with Dean grinding up and rutting into his ass, dead to the world and sleep-mumbling about being inside him. So Sam let him, running his fingers over Dean’s hand where it curled deep into his hip like a vice. As Dean grew nearer, he jolted himself awake and stilled, going completely silent. He remained rigid, only moving to spit Sam’s hair out of his mouth and shimmy down his brother’s back, face planted in his brother’s shoulder blade where he could muffle a moan. Finally Sam forced himself to blink, refusing to let heavy, tempting sleep take him, then squeezed his brother’s hand, full of coaxing permission. 

Dean swallowed audibly, nervously, like he still wasn’t allowed – to take, and enjoy himself, even if it started in his sleep, as if he had to be ashamed. Sam rolled his hips into Dean’s throbbing cock, grinding back obligingly just to hear the litany of whimpers that fell from his brother’s lips. Dean resumed, slowly, restrained, and choked to stay quiet as he came, hard. So afraid Sam was on the verge of being… more awake. More clearheaded to think it over or change his mind. 

That was when Sam got it, kind of. The fear. The want and the terror and the guilt, and never understanding the boundaries of this new thing they never meant to stumble on. The realization that their desire was valid, that it was requited, that they could ease the other’s suffering with brutal passion in the dark. 

It was always supposed to be brutal – like it was forced, like it was a desperate heat-of-the-moment necessity, like a secret in the dark – but it almost never was. Not anymore. It became relaxed, casual, a release. It became weekly, then nightly. Then daily. Sometimes more. Varied. Hand jobs, blowjobs, grinding in public bathrooms. Complicated. Something they never talked about. Something more. 

But not talking wasn’t the way Sam functioned. And Dean never did well with gray areas. So Sam kept trying to fix it. And Dean kept convincing himself it that he was the one breaking it. Neither was particularly good at realizing it wasn’t broken.

“Good, yeah?” Sam whispered, eyes trained on the soundless television, knowing how flighty Dean got when he was being watched. He could practically feel Dean preparing excuses to get up and hide for a while. 

Dean coughed, shrinking back as if he could magically invent space between them on the little couch. Even as Sam resisted the urge to follow and push back, holding himself rod still, yet loose and unthreatening, he couldn’t help adjust his body language, shrinking like he could give Dean more room. And Dean noticed that Sam had noticed, of course he did, and quickly realized they didn’t stand a chance to avoid this one. 

“Sammy… did I…? In my sleep?” he mumbled, retracting his hands, like it would help now that he was keeping to himself. 

Sam exhaled, disappointed that his brother still didn’t get it, after all this time. How wanted he was. How loved, how desired. How welcome his touch was. Instead of saying anything, he played off the noise like a content sigh. 

“Yeah, Dean. It was nice.” 

Sam felt his brother shift, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear. Already ready to apologize. Instead, he shifted forward, hesitancy shoved aside by big-brother-mode. He reached around, patting at Sam’s cock, noting it was half-hard, but not urgent or desperate. That hunter brain took over, like he was talking stock of a situation. Precarious. Important. Something fragile. 

Dean released a confused breath. “Sammy, did you…?” 

Sammy finally snuggled back into his arms, hair falling over his eyes, completely ignoring the wet spots at his back. Dean’s heart jumped, just watching his restful expression, remembering how many times his little brother had fallen asleep, just like that. And the shame swelled in, an old familiar tide, and gnawed at his stomach. 

Sam just released a little yawn, and smiled to himself. “Nah. Too sleepy.”

Dean inched closer, moving his arm into Sam’s space. He tried so hard not to look as exhausted as he felt – tried to embody his unspoken promises, his willingness to reciprocate, as if sharing would keep Sam from running away. Finally he whispered, “Didn’t you need me to…?”

But Sam just shook his head. “Nope, I’m good.”

Dean retracted his hand, wincing like he fucked up, like he had been too pushy, trying to drag Sam down to his level. “I- I just thought, because you said you liked it, that you… that you would want me to-”

“I’m good. I always like making you feel good. Sleep now.” 

Dean tried settling back in, listening to Sam’s soft words. It was so tempting – staying, burrowing closer, just taking and letting go. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how Sam whispers, a low voice that’s husky now. He wants to burrow into it, hide in the soft place where his voice warms up, somewhere against Sam’s chest. But Sam still keeps his voice secretively low, even though it’s just the two of them, even though there’s no one to risk waking with muffled gasps in the heat of the night. Sam still whispers, like you’re supposed to be quiet in the dark, the same way he always had, always. Back when they were little and this was simple. 

Dean couldn’t understand why Sam let him do that, why he seemed so unfazed by how filthy it was, didn’t say a word about that dream, the one that always leaves him groaning in his sleep and waking up to cum-filled shorts. Why he didn’t ask for a thing in return, not even a casual, transactional, handjob-for-handjob, orgasm-for-orgasm, trade. Not a word for even a willingly offered reach-around. Not even a joke, not one lighthearted thing, nothing to make it easier. Nothing. 

As much as he tried to stay still, stay calm, keep Sam content … he couldn’t. Suddenly it was too much, like it was when Sam touched him in all the ways that made him want to beg and plead and push away and run, all at the same time. Except there wasn’t a hand on his dick holding him in place when his chest swelled with something he couldn’t repress, so he sat up. So careful, trying so hard not to disturb his brother as he bolted for the bathroom and locked himself in a blistering hot shower. The pressure was good, the heat was intense, the entire space rare and clean. He should have enjoyed it, but he didn’t – couldn’t – wouldn’t. Turned it as hot as it got, almost like the light burns were closer to deserved penance than burrowing into to the one thing he wanted, the one he should never ever want. 

Sam knew, of course. He barely slept himself when Dean’s space-heater-warmth wasn’t snug against him. Confusion left him ruminating. He had no idea how to make Dean understand. How to make it easy. How to relax and enjoy this one amazing thing, as fragile and bright – and yeah, maybe dangerous – as a flame. 

While Dean showered, Sam changed into clean sweatpants, climbing into a clean and unmade bed. He reached across the far end and pulled the covers back as much as possible, knowing his thickheaded brother needed the invitation, and he couldn’t make it much clearer without carving ‘Dean’ right into the fucking pillow. 

So he laid there, trying to look peaceful and deep in sleep, desperately wishing he could go for a cold walk to clear his head. He couldn’t though, not with Dean looking for reasons to panic. He surely wouldn’t take well to Sam not being here when he got out. And Sam bit the bullet and held still, because he loved him, because Dean loved him, because Dean didn’t want to love him. Because all of it was a mess, and he wanted it anyway. 

He always had.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, he made a point to run past the pharmacy on his way to bring home breakfast. When he returned, he carefully displayed a variety of boxed pastries and hot sandwiches across the little table in front of his very impressed big brother. Once Dean had hot food filling his stomach and an easy smile on his face, Sam bit back the urge to keep him in that beautiful mood, the urge to swallow his convictions and let it be easy, because letting it be easy just made it harder. Instead, he openly crossed the room, not bothering with subtlety as he stuffed a drugstore bag in the empty pocket of Dean’s duffle. 

When he returned to the table, cheerfully digging into a container full of chilled fruit salad, he ignored his brother’s playful smirk.

“You gonna tell me what that’s about, Sammy?”

Sam leaned back, lifting hot coffee to his lips, thoughtful and casual at once. Then he smiled, sin and sunlight, and Dean felt a pang that he wanted to drag out a knife and carve out of his own chest. He smiled, and Dean wanted to kiss him and touch him and make him cry in all the right ways, or maybe all the wrong ones. 

Sam didn’t wait for Dean to launch himself across the table, licking and biting, kicking and screaming. No, Sam just smiled that stupid radiant smile, and sipped his damn coffee. Because Sam was the fucking prophecy, the only thing Dean could ever see. Like this was inevitable. And if Sam was the prophecy, then this fucked up need in every inch of Dean was the goddamn revelation. Because Dean was worshiping at the altar, right as he wanted to burn it all down. Because that kind of god could only ever hurt him, destroy him with love and sex and war and rapture, and all the prophets and all the angels saw him broken at that shrine, saw it all wrecked and shattered and burning to the ground. He looked at Sam, and what was happening to them. He looked at that, and he wanted to make it holy all over again, sinless and clean, but then he wanted to dirty him, he wanted to corrupt it with his own filthy fucking hands. He wanted and wanted and wanted, and they were both going to pay for it. But he couldn’t fucking stop. Wanting and needing and loving until it broke. It was a freight train and he didn’t want to get out of the way. 

The moment Sam spoke, Dean blinked, stunned, like it ripped away every idea of what he was going to do to that mouth. “…when you decide you want to figure it out, or if you decide, whether it’s on your time or mine, now you’ve got what you need. From here on, I stay out of it until you want me involved. Now shut up, stop asking, and eat your sandwich.” 

Dean shifted around uncomfortably, but the self-consciousness didn’t last long. Sam thought this through. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed more food towards Dean. He turned up the volume on a classic rock radio station, the same one Dean was excited to discover when they first made their way into the area. He presented Dean with an earful of ironic leads on the same dead case that had kept them in town so long. 

Once Sam had plowed through two cups of coffee, once he had Dean weeping with laughter at an impersonation of a mortician they’d already interviewed, he crawled between his brother’s legs and sucked his dick, slow and indulgent and pretty as you please. By the time Dean came down his throat with a yell, deeper than Sam had ever been able to take him before, his shining green eyes were full of tears. 

Sam intended to ignore it, but he had caught Dean in a rare moment, smiling bright and teasing, “Hey Sammy… See this? My eyes are watering like I deepthroated my own dick. Totally symptoms of Sympathy Head.”

And Sam was laughing. Then he was gasping. Dean had his hands down his brother’s pants, grinning like he was getting away with something, mouth on Sam’s neck in a way that was unspoken and Not Allowed just a few weeks before. 

“Yeah?” Sam gasped, trying to pull on any string Dean gave him.

Dean nipped his jaw, gasping little laughs as he dragged Sam’s jeans to the floor. “Means you did a good job, Sammy.”

And with that, Sam let his brother push him to the floor and swallow his leaking cock.


	3. Chapter 3

The calm lasted the day. They scouted a couple of cemeteries after chasing bogus intel on a couple grave desecration-related hauntings. Sam called bullshit the moment the sheriff hung up on the other end, but they went anyway, mostly as an excuse. For something to do. For a reason to sit in the sun, sprawled out on the front of the impala, picnicking with passable takeout for cover. A reason to drink beer and laughing hysterically. A reason to steal playful kisses when they were sure the area was deserted. A reason to casually reminisce, like old friends in a bar. T. A reason to get some sun, instead of slinking around in the dark. To pretend they weren’t still wrapped in so many scar-hiding layers, that it didn’t almost defeat the purpose. o take an afternoon siesta in the fresh air, curled together and gripping each other’s shirts like a last chance to hold on

When the sun finally fell below the horizon and mosquitos started to hover in the dark, they slid of the hood and crawled into Baby’s safe embrace, warmer the moment they slammed the doors to the early night wind. They didn’t bother sitting around at the local bar, or bothering with locals, or pretending to care about a dead case. They grabbed dinner and raced back to the motel like the sparking air between them was really waiting back there, under the covers, deep in the dark, when they locked the door and turned out the lights. 

Dean didn’t have a movie this time, instead leaving reruns quietly touting in the background while Sam finished confirming dead ends with a little research and Dean discretely cleaned guns left neglected from the last hunt. Even the necessities were kept brief, and soon enough they had found their way into a freshly cleaned bed – crisply made by a well-tipped maid – and their hands into each other’s pants, panting and happy and standard. Real. New-normal. Seamless.

It didn’t take long after Sam had fallen asleep for Dean roll to the opposite edge of the bed, hanging over the side and arms drooped to the floor, reaching for his duffle stashed away. Sensing the space, even in his sleep, Sam rolled over, facing Dean with a content, wrung-out sigh. Dean held perfectly still, like he was caught doing something wrong. Like he didn’t believe Sam actually meant for him to look. So he waited, listening until Sammy’s huffy breathing sounded rhythmic. Intact. 

Finally, he lunged forward again, freeing the edge and digging his hand into the pocket Sam hadn’t bothered to close up. When he revealed the contents, he expected something weird – a prank, like an irrelevant deck of cards, or even a handwritten letter about all the things he didn’t want to talk about. He didn’t expect to find fucking condoms – many – and bottles of lube – plural – with Sam’s voice ringing in his head.

_“When you decide you want to figure it out, or if you decide, whether it’s on your time or mine, now you’ve got what you need. From here on, I stay out of it until you want me involved.”_

Dean swallowed roughly, clearing his throat like he could discretely cough away the red blush filling his cheeks. God, when was the last time he blushed at sex? It wasn’t the first time he had handled either of these things, and yet…

Sammy.

Dean was overwhelmed, a little pissed off and a lot turned on, and mostly just hard as hell and scared shitless. His vision clouded. Stuffing the bag away, he considered three options: one, run. Run like hell. Stop fucking up his little brother, stop fucking his little brother, and just go. He’d never get far. He’d never last, not anymore, but he could try. It’d be honorable, maybe. He could start walking. Or at least for the night. God, even if he tried, he’d be back by morning. He could try.

Two: he could pretend he never found it. Wasn’t curious. Never looked. Sam would see through that bullshit so fast. He could still try.

Or, three, he could get into it. But that was wrong, bad, no. He could practically hear his father screaming in the back of his head, the old man rolling over in the grave he never got. Poisonous memories flooded his head – memories of John dragging them apart when they fell asleep and cuddled too close as teenagers, just for warmth back then, too afraid of his own sexuality to let things be. And hell, it wasn’t even Dad’s fault. The guy was gruff, just trying to pass on that gravelly masculinity, regardless of what it meant, because that’s what he thought he was supposed to do. 

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Dean wasn’t an idiot, and he knew that fucking your brother is not how you end up on God’s A-List… not that he wanted to think of two deadbeat fathers in one sitting. Not that he really gave a fuck what either thought now, except he did, but mostly he was just scared. For Sammy. Of Sammy. Of wanting too much. Of ruining what could have been, if someday Sammy didn’t want as much as he did. Of Sam, waking up, realizing what they’ve done and who they’ve become. 

Hell, he’s been down this road. Everyone has summer camp stories – hand jobs or a brojobs or whatever – he could fix that, maybe, if Sam decided he was over it. He could pass it off, bullshit about witches laying lust spell whammies on them, blame it on a phase. Too many cold nights on the road. Too much time in the dark. Too much time on the job, the way the hunter life eats you alive, fucks you in the head. Something, anything, so that they could be brothers again. Sam would never be just his brother, not to Dean, not ever, but he would at least be a part of his life. But fucking… actual, penetrative, bottom-top fucking? You don’t come back from that.

Dean didn’t realize he was this angry, not even sure who at. Maybe Sam, for making him want it. For making it so easy. For paying attention to his whacked fantasies and bad habits, and going out of his way to deliver on all of it. For not just… just holding him down and taking, or maybe begging for it, something to make it easier. For knowing how bad Dean wanted it. Or maybe he was pissed at himself – definitely pissed at himself – for wanting what he wanted. For being who he was at the first place

He was, though. He was ashamed and guilty and afraid and pissed. He threw a lamp across the room, storming and shaking. Dean couldn’t even see himself, how he was reacting, how much of a monster he could be, not until he saw Sam’s startled-awake face. That expression, that maddening expression, of love, and fear, and pity, and confusion, and affection. Dean punched the wall harder. When did he start punching the wall? He did, though. , and cleared the two tables with large sweeps of his arms, kicking the debris across the room. God, what the fuck was he doing? It was almost four AM. People are sleeping, they’ll come knocking, they’ll call the cops. They’ll have to pay for the damages, and they hadn’t put a card on the room – they were paying with rigged pool money. Sam was sleeping, happy, creamed and peaceful, why did he fuck that up too? 

Then he was talking. God, he couldn’t even listen to himself. Constant, stream of consciousness, everything that popped into his head. Twisted, directed at Sam. He didn’t mean it, he doesn’t fucking mean any of it. Shit, did he say that too? 

Sam threw his hands up, jumping to his feet. He was exhausted but fully awake now, pacing the room back and forth so hard it made Dean picture the erosion wearing holes in the floor, with Sam sinking through to the basement, like a cartoon. With Sam moving, he didn’t feel the need to destroy and clamor and shift anymore. He just sat on the bed, staring into the dark like he couldn’t see a damn thing. He couldn’t.

“Fucking hell, Dean! You’re making this into something it’s not, by a lot. I have no idea what the fuck is going on with you. What? Is it that stupid shit? I was trying to help you out, idiot. Fuck… Dean, if I had... when you first grabbed me, the very first time, and pulled me down on top of you, begged me to hold you down, told me to do anything I wanted, if I had then... if I fucked you then, instead of grabbing our cocks, would this be okay now? Would it be different? If I set the fucking precedent? Answer me, asshole.” 

“If it had gone that far… I'd have thrown everything I had in a duffle and bolted. I’d have kept driving until… I don’t even know if you would’ve seen me again.” Dean could feel his chest breaking open, a thousand pieces laid out before him. Sammy couldn’t see it. Or maybe he could. Would he still care after the stupid shit he said? Why did Sam turn the lights on? Why did he always have to look, have to see everything Dean didn’t want him to?

“So you would’ve left me. Alone.”

“Oh, come on, man. You know- Yeah, I would’ve hit the road, Sammy, but the part that…. my heart – whatever. I would’ve left it with you.”

“Oh, bullshit, Dean. You would’ve fucked every skirt from Illinois to Oregon and you know it.”

“Of course I’d ty to forget you. How could I have lived? With you, right there in my head? I could only ever try. It would’ve have worked. I would’ve…” Dean could feel despair, harsh at the back of his throat, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop this. He had to confess. To apologize. To do whatever it was he had to do.

Sam groaned, running his hands through his hair. “Then why leave?”

“Sam.”

“I’m serious, Dean. I want to know. “

“You said we needed to talk. This is me, talking. Right here, right now.” Dean insisted, hardening like he was ready for a fight, as if they weren’t only a few feet away from one another. “And I’m telling you, man, you don’t want to know.” Sam bristled, then softened. Dean didn’t sound angry anymore. Just broken.

“Tell me.”

“Damn it, Sam! I would’ve- I would’ve thrown my ass on the rack again if I thought it would go this far.”

Sam stepped back, pain rising in his chest like a knife wound. “You said you wanted this.”

Dean was quiet for a moment, biting back all the meaningless, impulsive crap that he wanted to spit out. Trying to find words Sammy deserved. The truth, maybe. “I wanted- I want you, Sam. All of you. All the time. In a thousand ways I shouldn’t. And all I’ve done is fucked you, fucked you up, fucked this up. Wanted you so bad, I kept taking. Kept making it worse. Got grabby until it broke in my hands… Sammy. Look what I did. All of this is my fault.’

“All of what, Dean? The one, small bit of relief and happiness and light we have in our dark, fucked up lives? The good parts in between the bullshit? Stop acting like the way I love you is a bad thing. Stop acting like the way you want me is a bad thing. The only thing fucked up about it is the fact that you’re ripping yourself apart for- for- what? This? Is whatever this is really so bad that you have you threaten to kill yourself? To sell your fucking soul? After all we went through?”

Dean swallowed like the air was burning him, looking at the floor, full of the same self-loathing Sam so desperately wanted to wash him clean of. “Sammy, you already knew that.”

Sam through his hands up, exasperated and shattered open, all at once. “How-”

“I already sold my soul for you. Yeah, I’d do it again. Again and again and again. I’d suffer, forever, even knowing what just a taste – forty fucking years – was like. I’d do that again for you. To fix this. To have gone back, left you alone. Never ruined… you had so much, man. Now you can’t even- you can’t even take some girl home, you’re so damned worried about me half the time.”

Sam groaned, rolling his eyes. “Dean, it’s not that I can’t, it’s that I won’t. Don’t want to.”

“You should though, Sam. That’s the fucking point.”

“No, Dean. I’m not worried about you, I want you. Only. Constantly.” 

Dean looked like he was pleading. “It’s not supposed to be that way, Sam.”

“I don’t give one lonely flying fuck.” Sam laughed, harsh, almost bewildered. 

“Damn it! You’re my brother. And a grown ass man.”

“Do you want me fucking girls, Dean? Is that what this is about? Am I too gay for you or something? You wish I was fucking other people?”

“No! It’s the last fucking thing I want.”

“Then what, Dean?”

“You just should. I can’t say I want you to, because I don’t, okay? I want you all to myself. I want you to want to be next to me, come hell or high water, in the car or in my bed, and I- …don’t you see how fucked up this is? How-”

“Shut up. Just shut up. Stop. Okay? Stop making this something it’s not.”

“Which is what?”

“Bad. Wrong. Evil. Whatever,” Sam groaned, fists itching like he wanted to put his fist through a wall. Or ball them up in Dean’s shirt and throw his brother up against the wall…

“What do you call fucking your brother then, Sammy? Enlighten me.”

Sam sighed, leaving the area where he had been pacing, encroaching on Dean’s space. He was no longer afraid his brother was going to run, that he’d leave everything unsaid and slam the door closed to the conversation forever. It had already gone too far. Dean knew that. Part of him wanted to wait until he was helpless to try and fight back, until it was too far to try to stop it. Anything to make it easy. It never was. 

Sam gently nudged his way between his brother’s legs, resting his own elbows on Dean’s knees as he met his gaze. 

“Dean,” he said, voice so soft it put Dean on edge, on the defensive, like the tone meant to ease and melt could hold something sharp and dangerous behind it. “Bad is what we fight, every day on the front lines. Bad and wrong, they’re out there. Beyond these walls. Evil is why we pack our bags and head out. Evil is why we load that trunk with every weapon, every spell, every protection, every salt round, and all the crazy jacked up ammo we can get our hands on. It’s why we’ve been pumping bullets since we were old enough to walk. It’s out there, maybe always will be.”

“Sam, I didn’t mean-”

“Shh, okay? You and me? We fight the good fight. We do the right thing, and sometimes the wrong thing, but at the end of the day, we’ve saved more people than we’ve hurt, and we’ve fixed more than we’ve broken. Okay? Okay? Look at me. Look. That is goodness. You, me, saving people, hunting things, the whole bit. That is good. You and me? This? Close and warm and safe? This is good.”

“Sam-”

“No. It’s not evil and it’s not wrong, and you know better than anyone that what all the people out there, living blind and normal lives in the dark… what they think is true, or good and bad, or right and wrong, it’s off. All the time. They’re not worried about the monsters. They’re not afraid of the dark. They don’t know what’s out there. They don’t know what we’ve done, or the sacrifices we’ve made. They don’t even know they need saving. And they’re never going to know what you and I do, in the car or the bunker or wherever we crash. They’re never going to know what we have. So fuck them. Fuck what they think. They don’t know, Dean, they’re never going to. Since when have you ever given a damn about them? It’s never been like that. It’s just you and me. That’s what it’s supposed to be. You know that, right?”

Dean closed his eyes, pitching forward like he had been held up by a string that snapped, leaning into Sam’s arms. “Sammy…”

“Right, Dean?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I know.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me? That I’m bad or unclean or something?”

“What? God, no- you’re goddamn Saint Sam.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “I’ll tell you what, Dean. There isn’t one wild fucking thing too wrong with you to me. The things that are messed up about both of us, we can handle it. We’ve always handled it. There’s nothing wrong here, Dean. I’m not trying to make you cringe, man, but you know how I feel. About this. Your body. You. All of it. There’s nothing evil about that. It’s not an addiction, or a drug, or a spell. It’s human. Real and flawed and us, and we’ve always been on that side. On our side.”

Dean raised his eyes, catching those killer puppy dog eyes, and it broke: all the resolve. The guilt, the shame, the self-hatred. He wanted, yes, but he also loved, violently. Passionately. Sam wasn’t just something Dean wanted to fuck. Sam as someone Dean wanted to protect, and nurture, and push around a bit, or a lot, and kiss a bit, or a lot, and then whatever else he could get, as much as he could take, and then a bit more.

Dean surged up, catching his brother’s ready lips, his stubbled jaw already cradled by Sam’s open hands. As Sam rose to his feet, refusing to let the space slip between them again, he pushed Dean back on the bed. He went to his back, easy.

“Sam, you can… you can have it. Whatever you want.”

“Dean-”

“Just let me, okay? I want you. All the ways I shouldn’t. Or should. Whatever. I want you. Always. Okay?”

Sam nodded fiercely, fighting the surge of emotion in his chest, suddenly inarticulate, with no words that could compete with that simple declaration. 

“Yeah, I- I understand, Dean. Okay? I get it.” He chased his words with a kiss, biting at Dean’s lips. He understood, implicitly. Dean was saying, in the way he does, I love you. A thousand times over. But even as Dean felt himself give, affectionate and pliant in Sam’s arms, physically trying to give himself like a gift or a promise, Sam felt it. How deep that love went. And also the line of tension in Dean’s spine, the rigidity as he craned his neck, the nervousness in the exploration of his hands, hands that were usually as confidant touching Sam as they were slipping bullets into familiar guns or turning the key in Baby’s ignition. He felt it – all the things that weren’t right. 

Dean stiffened with the attention, and Sam realized he was staring, evaluating, the concern obvious. He quickly smoothed his hands down his brother’s sides, and pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw. “Dean, don’t… don’t worry about that. Not tonight, okay?”

When Sam pulled back, he wanted to address the question in his brother’s face. But before he could say a word, Dean was relaxing in his arms. He leaned back against the arm Sam slipped around his waist, looking up, open and vulnerable, like he did when he felt safe.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

“No.” Sam smiled, pressing a little kiss to Dean’s dimple, on the edge of a smile both confused and a little teasing. “I want you to want to fuck and be fucked.”

Dean swallowed audibly, wiggling under Sam, lower body waking up. “Life’s simple pleasures.”

“Something like that,” Sam agreed, obligingly pressing his knee snug against Dean’s filling cock. “And to want to love and be loved. Consumed a little, maybe. And be brave when I wanna make you feel so, so good.”

“Mmm.” Dean hummed, almost growling. Relaxed. Turned out. 

His eyes followed Sam, fierce and awake and attentive, even as his hands leisurely stroked his brother’s arms, finding their way down, beneath the hem of Sam’s jeans and brushing along bare skin until he got a response – a light shiver that always went straight to his cock, with a pang in his chest, something like affection and lust rolled into one. Sam wiggled his arm around Dean’s waist until his brother arched, letting him pull it free and work at removing Dean’s clothes, worshiping every inch of skin he exposed.

Dean tugged at Sam’s v-neck, pulling and huffing until he got the hint. Once the shirt was gone, he made quick work of opening his own jeans before stripping Dean down to his boxers. Dean didn’t tense up again, but he raised a brow, determined to at least prepare himself if Sam changed his mind. “Sammy… Just this, yeah? For tonight? Like always?”

Sam took Dean’s face in his hands, kissing reverently and gently, reminding his brother that he’s loved and wanted and good and safe. 

Pulling back, for air and eye contact, Sam moved his lips against his brother’s ear. “Just this. Just us, like this.” He cupped Dean’s achingly hard cock through the cotton of his briefs, smiling at the hitch in breath before feeling his way to the elastic waist and pulling them off completely, never breaking eye contact. Sam watched in awe, eating up the little hiss Dean made as Sam stroked his bare cock, hand saliva-wet and perfect. 

Sam buried his face in Dean’s neck, worshiping the sensitive skin with bites and kisses, rewarding little moans with more and more. Dean’s hips rolled into Sam’s hand, unable to resist jerking into his firm grip. Sam smiled, watched the body beneath him, whispering low and soft. “Mmm. We’re good like this, right?”

Dean gasped, mouth open and eyes locking with Sam’s, as sensitive as the first time he invited Sam’s hands into his pants. “Y-Yeah, Sammy. I love it.”

“Good.” Sam smiled, ducking down to wrap his lips around the head of Dean’s straining cock.

He stroked and sucked and bobbed until Dean exploded in his mouth, howling and begging and full of breathy praises. Sam stroked him through it, palming his own dick until Dean’s sleepy hands pushed him aside and took over, immediately stroking Sam’s cock and rolling his balls between his warm fingers.

“Sam, what about…?”

Sam panted, pulling eyes away from the ceiling and trying to find Dean’s in the dark. “We’ll w-work up to it… ‘kay? There’s… fuck, yes…. There’s a-a lot to try. Between here and there. There, yeah. Fuck. Fuck, Dean!” 

Dean groaned, working Sam through the prettiest orgasm he’d seen from his boy in a long time. 

“Sammy. Did so well. So pretty. S’good.”

Fuck it. Or, preferably, fuck him. Come hell or high water, he was going to enjoy this. Them. Always.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be short and porny and funny, but then agnst and 6k... overall, I'm not sure what happened here. Enjoy.


End file.
